A Painter’s Stick Some one spoke of a clever young woman, who had great talent for painting, and who had recently married a fool. “If she does a great deal of painting,” said Saphir, “I am not surprised that she took a stick!” According to His Need Saphir once had a wordy battle with an author. The latter, who envied the famous humorist, said: “You write for money only, while I write for honor.” “Every one of us writes for what he needs most,” was Saphir’s rejoinder. Heinrich Heine The first great wave of admiration brought to Heine also a host of cavillers and doubters of his genius. Young Levin, brother of Rahel Varnhagen, once told Heine, partly in fun, partly seriously, that his poems particularly, did not deserve the extravagant praise everybody bestowed on them, and that their chief charm lay in the quick transition from the highly pathetic to the trivial, and that anybody who had caught the trick could imitate them very easily. “Well, compose a poem à la Heine,” said the poet laughingly. “I am not afraid of your competition.” Next day his friend returned, handing him the manuscript of a lyric poem: “Sie gab mir bei ihren Tode Ein blasses, blaues Band— Es liegt in meiner Commode Im Schube rechter hand.” (“She gave me while dying A pale blue bow— In my desk it is lying To this day, just so!”) This was what Heine read, and falling on his friend’s neck in comical despair, cried:—“If you publish that I am lost!” declaring himself vanquished by this pretended take-off. To the End During the last days of his life, a friend visited him at Paris, and entered just as two nurses carried him to a fresh bed. “How are you, Heinrich?” asked his friend. “Very well,” replied Heine; “you see the women still carry me on their hands.” Alexander von Humboldt When Humboldt was made honorary citizen of Berlin, he made the customary visits of thanks to all the city fathers. In his round he came to the house of an elderly councilman, who hurried down-stairs in his lounging robe and received his distinguished guest at the carriage door, with the explanation that he would never permit the venerable gentleman to climb the stairs in his behalf. At the same time, he was not going to deny himself the honor of a conversation. So he climbed into the carriage, exchanged with Humboldt for a quarter of an hour the usual courtesies, and ended his visit by slipping back into his house, calling to the coachman “to go on.” A Famous Climber While living at Paris, Heine’s apartments were on the fifth floor. One day on returning home, his wife met him at the door and told him reproachfully that an old gentleman had been there to see him; she was very sorry that the poor old man had climbed all those stairs for nothing. Heine looked at the visiting card. “You may comfort yourself, dear child; that man has climbed way above us.” It was the card of Alexander von Humboldt. An Unexpected Find